Because I learn my father's language On only two mornings a week I do not yet know enough for poetry And there are few words that I can speak "Dw i'n byw yn Abertawe Dw i'n dod o Manceinion yn wreiddiol" But that won't get me far And I've messed up the mutations. At first, the night after each lesson, I could not sleep Could not stop repeating what I had learnt "Sut mae! Sut dych chi?'" I wondered if it would lead me To a new world, to my ancestors Would make me belong here Where the Tawe finds the sea. Fortified by my small knowledge I walk the Swansea Valley With verses in my head But I only know the poets Of a century that's dead. When I was sixteen Dylan spoke to me - I felt the force driving the flower And had erotic dreams about the boys of summer I went on my pilgrimages To Laugharne and Cwndonkin Drive And wanted to be the Dylan of Albany Road. Now, I read Gwenallt, Late at night, very slowly, Word by word, pausing often To consult my dictionary, And his tales of the thirties Are made more poignant by my difficulties. But where are the writers, Fighting the words The struggle to say Fashioning beauty That speaks of today?